


Chicken Soup for the Soul

by kalewrites



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes is swoonworthy, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Or Is It?, Sick Character, Unrequited Love, unrealistic expectations of men, you might be a bit stubborn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-03 02:51:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14559237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalewrites/pseuds/kalewrites
Summary: Chicken soup cures all, right? Well, when you find yourself struck down by the Flu you stubbornly hide away from a certain Super Soldier in a bid to keep from breaking your no feelings vow.





	Chicken Soup for the Soul

Strong. Badass.  _ Terrifying _ . 

 

Words used to describe you,  _ yeah _ , at least most of the time. You weren’t feeling particularly badass right now being completely floored by the common flu. An insult, the disrespect. Ha! What a joke, an Avenger, taken down by a runny nose. The team will sure get a kick out of it.  _ If they find out. _

 

Ok so you didn't have the healthiest approach to asking for help, maybe a smidge proud enough to not want to expose that last bit of weakness. Sure, you loved the team but it was one thing to link arms in battle for the world against actual warriors and an entirely different thing to bare your neck to the flu. So here you wallow, alone in your room, surrounded by used tissues and mugs of now cold coffee. Blankets draped over the couch and around you in your inability to decide if you were too hot or too cold.  _ Pathetic _ .

 

So naturally, of course, the world wants to fuck with you. Three precise, sharp knocks on your door make your bones ache before you even move. The thought of the effort it will take to open the door that makes your marrow fill up like lead, force you to burrow a little deeper into the blanket cocoon and just hope whoever it is leaves. If you’d been thinking clear, you’d have known. Might have prevented it. Flu brain. So, when you hear the distinct clunk of the lock opening, your annoyed but unsurprised. A hazard of living with assassins and super soldiers is that locked doors are no deterrent, in fact, you sometimes wondered if they forgot doors opened without the need. You don’t turn to see, instead squeeze your eyes shut and pray that it’s Wanda. Or Steve. The two least likely to spill your secret… (That you’re human, shock!)

 

“Shit, are you okay?” Bucky says and your eyes snap open, blink stupidly up at him as your brain helpfully reminds you that you’d told him to come over today. (A whole day late, what a helpful brain.) He side smirks when he sees your surprise, “You forgot I was coming over, huh?”

 

“M’Sorry.” You muffle out, hating the sound of your blocked nose, “I uh, I’m…”

 

“...sick?” He finishes for you, his eyebrows bunching together in that way that makes you want to smooth it out with your fingers.  _ Concern _ , you remind yourself,  _ it’s called concern _ .

 

“Ugh, I guess.” You throw your hands up in defeat at the admission and the squeeze your eyes again at the aching wave that follows the movement. See, Bucky was without a doubt the last person you wanted to see you sick, to even know you could get sick. You had an arrangement, one you enjoyed immensely even if it left the tiniest dull ache in your chest, that involved a minimal amount of talking and an immense amount of pleasure. A coping method. A way to forget. 

 

He says nothing for what feels like the longest time, looks at you carefully and then, “How long have you been sick?” 

 

“Woke up like this yesterday.” You admit, eyelids heavy with the strain to stay awake. Sleep curling at the edges of your lashes like an old friend, inviting, taunting. A cold hand presses to the side of your face, cups around and moves up to your forehead. You lean into his touch like you ache for it, too weak to measure your responses to him, too weak to pretend

 

“Why didn’t you text me?” He asks, expectation coloring his voice in a tone you’ve never heard and your eyes open in surprise. You blink to clear it, blink again to settle back into detachedness. You hope.

 

“Why would I?” It’s a challenge, the swords edge you both dance along but never trip against. The defiance lasts about 3 seconds before your eyes start to drift shut again, your body aching for the rest. He mumbles under his breath and you pretend you don’t hear the  _ Stubborn  _ that’s thrown in your direction. The hand disappears and your face tries to chase it, leans desperately into the air for the comfort only he can give you but it’s gone, only to be followed by the soft opening and closing of your front door. 

 

He left. Of course he left, this is not what he signed up for, the snot and coughing and unwashed skin. Disappointment moves slow and thick through your veins and you let the blissful nothingness of sleep finally take you. 

 

The sleep was anything but blissful. Blankets twisted around you, the damp material of your tank like a second skin and the ache in your joints seemed like it was getting worse instead of better. Something wakes you and you can’t quite put your finger on it, stomach lurching in response and making itself known, something that has you feeling like home and comfort. A deep breath to clear your head clues you in, fills you with the soft and tantalising aroma that’s crept into your room. Your stomach pangs again, reminding you that you haven’t eaten in 2 days and its  _ ready _ . Fueled by the need, you find your feet and your balance, follow the scent down the hall to your kitchen and stop dead at the sight of it. The smell of it.

 

Bucky, his back to you and hunched a bit over your stove, gentle stirring a pot of what you assume to be soup. The best smelling soup you’d ever fucking smelled. 

 

He came back. And made you soup.

 

You used heart gives a battered thump in your chest, even as your brain fights with the logic so that train doesn’t leave the station. It’s too late, an edge you were already on becomes a chasm you’ll never get out of, your sure of it. 

 

“Your awake.” He says, more to himself when he turns and finds you gawking, “Feel up to eating?” You nod, still lost for words and too weak minded to find them. He guides you to the table, pulls out a chair and tucks you in like it’s a five star restaurant and sets a bowl of heaven down right in front of you. You barely have enough strength of mind to thank him before happily slurping it down, reveling in the way it seems to sooth your tender throat and fill the ache in your belly. Soup… who knew? When your done, he sets down a large glass of water that you happily inhale, surprised by how thirsty you actually are but then can’t really remember the last thing you had to drink. 

 

“Better?” He asks, clearing away your bowl and refilling the glass.

 

“Yeah. Thank you. That was amazing.” You reply, letting him lead you back to the couch and basking in the glow of his touches when he wraps a blanket around your shoulders again.

 

“Something I used to make Steve, back when he was pint sized.” He smiles a bit when he says it, like he’s picturing it and you fight the wave of envy that you didn’t put it there. His smiles are rare but they are worth the work. He digs into a bag by his feet and pulls out a tub, sets it on the table in front of you and motions like  _ go on  _ and so you pick it up and read the label, glance back at him and pull at your bottom lip. VapoRub. Jeez, this guy. 

 

“I uh, don’t really know what to do with it.” The admission feels like another weakness, another lost point in the useless battle to remain aloof, detached. He says nothing back but reaches for the tub, fingers brushing across yours in the gentlest of touches, opens it and looks at you for permission which you gratefully give him. He scoops it onto his fingers and slowly reaches out till his fingertips touch your chest, smears in slow, methodical circles that despite your condition make you breathe a little deeper. He looks at you and air in the room feels lighter, the softness in his eyes make you realise now how stupid it was to hold back, to think that it was somehow what he wanted, needed. Circling each other at arm's length but always waiting for the other to bend, to break, to be the one who risks it. 

 

You reach up and place a hand over his, flattening the fingers to your chest and smile, look at him the way you’ve been so desperately denying yourself and  _ bend _ .

 

“Thank you.” Thick with feeling, ready to bare that neck, “I’m glad you're here.”

 

“Anytime.” He says, smiling at you the rarest of all smiles, “All you have to do is ask, Doll.” He means it, you know this now, the first wall is finally down and both of you are circling closer. 

 

“Put some of that on your feet, okay? I’ll be right back.” 

 

“My feet?” You ask, because what the fuck?

 

“Yeah, just trust me ok?” A challenge again, except this time you know what to do, shedding the pretense and now its so easy. 

 

“Ok.” 

 

He’s back before you can miss him, and yet you do anyway, carves out a spot next to you on the couch and settles in. 

 

“You wanna watch a movie?” He asks, like its no big deal, like he’s here all the time and this is just normal. It is normal, and the very normal feel of it is so perfect your teeth hurt. Watching a movie on a couch, so pedestrian, so ordinary, so… perfect. 

He sees you seeing him, lets the light glow a little brighter and the truth show clearly in his eyes. Tips his head forward so his lips brush with yours in the barest of touches, an intimacy in his eyes on yours and his lips fit so perfectly between your own says more to you than a thousand words could. Words fail in a way that a meeting of the souls doesn’t. The relief of finally being seen. 

 

“You’ll get sick.” 

 

“I’m not worried.”

 

He kisses you again. And again. 

 

Flu? What flu?

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
